


Countdown

by Dardrea



Series: Valentine's Fluff 2016 [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Rumbelle - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5999905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dardrea/pseuds/Dardrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More fluff. Happy Valentine's Day! Based on a prompt from a list of prompts I saw forever ago about one member of your OTP being a delivery person and making repeated deliveries to the other, who lives at the top of a hill, and low-key hating the other for making them have to repeatedly bike up it to make their deliveries. Basically, Belle, the bike courier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

_Six Days Until Valentine’s Day_

The first time Belle French had checked the info on a bouquet her father had left out for her and saw the address for Mr. Gold’s big, pink Victorian she’d almost dropped the flowers in shock. She’d even gone back to check the records in the ailing old computer to make sure there hadn’t been some mistake. Not only was Mr. Gold’s address associated with the delivery, but he was, in fact, the recipient.

He always seemed polite and respectable enough when he came to her father’s shop to collect on the rent, she didn’t really know what the people in town expected from him, but even for a newcomer like Belle, the idea that someone would be sending him flowers was…baffling.

When she’d caught her boyfriend cheating on her, was laid off from her research job at the university, and had her roommate move out to get married, all within the span of a month and a half—leaving her solely responsible for the rent she could no longer afford on an apartment in the city that she’d gotten to be close to the job and the boyfriend she no longer had—quaint, quiet Storybrooke, and her father’s house there had seemed like a nice place to regroup.

He was so excited to have her living with him for the first time since she’d left for college, she felt guilty for how little she actually wanted to be there, but she was determined to be cheerful while she figured things out.

In the meantime, Belle was working as a bicycle courier for his flower shop, as well as a few other businesses in town and if someone had paid for a bouquet to be delivered to Mr. Gold, she would certainly make sure it got to him.

 

* * *

 

She had not factored in the steepness of the hill on which his pink Victorian was perched.

It was more than a cliché that the rich and powerful liked to live in high places, the better to look down on the rest of the populace—or they simply had the money to afford the better views, but she wasn’t feeling like giving anyone the benefit of the doubt, the way she was panting for breath, sweating, and her legs were burning from the difficult ride up Mr. Gold’s hill. His mountain was more like it. And she’d thought she was in shape!

Still, she patted her sweat-frizzed hair down in an attempt to look presentable and, brandishing the bouquet, pushed the doorbell. And waited.

She was just about to ring again when she finally heard the definite tap and scrape of his cane nearing the other side of the door and she raised the drooping bouquet and pasted on her widest smile.

Mr. Gold opened the door and his gaze swept her, taking in her flushed, sweaty appearance, her bike shorts and bare calves and tennis shoes in the chill Maine February air, and an arrangement of the some of the finest flowers her father’s shop offered, all in one quick, dismissive glance.

“Yes? What is it?” he said, sounding impatient and not the least bit interested.

Still forcing herself to smile she held the flowers out towards him. “For you! From Game of Thorns flower shop!” she announced.

He looked down at the flowers without taking them, blinking once, slowly, as though they might transform into something more interesting if he did so.

“I didn’t order any flowers,” he said.

She gritted her teeth—but kept up the cheery smile.

“No, sir. They’re for you. Someone ordered them and had us deliver them.” She held them out a little further, but he neither took them nor backed away, keeping her and her flowers out of his house with the sheer force of his indifference.

“There’s been a mistake,” he said, still utterly apathetic to her offering and started shutting the door.

“No! No,” she insisted, quickly snaking her foot across the door jam to hold the door open, surprised when it actually worked as well as it always seemed to on TV. Of course if he’d been more persistent about closing the door it wouldn’t have, but he was gracious enough to stop when the wood met the resistance of her foot.

He did send a narrow-eyed look down at her pink and teal tennis shoe though.

“No, I checked the order myself. There’s no mistake. Someone wanted you to have these.” She wiggled the bouquet a little so the paper rustled.

He stared her down a moment longer, looking for lies—or a trick—and she was sure he was going to just shut the door after all and leave her with the undelivered flowers. Finally he took them from her, and she almost jumped at the coolness of his fingers as they brushed hers over the cellophane.

“Thank you,” he said, and shut the door in her face.

For a moment she stood staring in confusion, from her extended, empty hand, to the closed door.

“It is customary to tip the delivery girl,” she muttered to the empty porch as she went to retrieve her bike.

 

* * *

 

_Five Days Until Valentine’s Day_

She was even more sure it was a mistake the next day, when she saw the same bouquet, set to be sent to the same address.

“Papa!” she called.

But no, he insisted it was a new order, phoned in that morning, complete with a new order number.

She sighed and went to grab her bike.

 

* * *

 

“Now, Miss French, surely _this_ is a mistake,” Mr. Gold said severely, frowning at the proffered bouquet and apparently not bothering to notice her red-faced, panting appearance.

“Nope,” she said, more shortly, partly because she was still fighting for breath, not trying to force a smile since he wasn’t looking at her anyway. “I asked my father; new order as of this morning. Someone really likes you,” she tried to sound enthusiastic, she really did, but it was hard when she found it so hard to believe herself.

He seemed to find it as implausible as she did.

He snatched the bouquet from her hand this time, glaring at her.

“I don’t know what you’re about, Miss French—”

“Delivering. I’m a delivery girl,” she explained helpfully, unsurprised when the quip didn’t soften his attitude.

“—but I don’t expect to see you here again,” he said warningly, before shutting the door in her face for the second time in as many days.

“You’re so welcome. I hope you have a great day, too,” she mumbled before she risked sticking her tongue out at the closed door.

 

* * *

 

_Four Days Until Valentine’s Day_

There was something fatalistic about the way her eyes were instantly drawn to that same bouquet, quietly waiting for her on the counter the next day. Yellow irises, orange lilies, and coral roses with an abundance of vividly green sword ferns. It was a rather aggressive bouquet, really; she wondered if whoever was sending them knew that.

Even though she’d expected nothing less—this was clearly how her life was going to go from now on—she checked the address and then the order number in the system to make sure there hadn’t been a mistake.

Indeed, she was unsurprised to find that at 8:34 that morning her father had taken another call, authorizing another charge on the same account for that same bouquet delivered to that same house at the top of that same, damned mountain of a hill. There was just an account number attached to a business in Boston, no person’s name for her to track down and plead with. She wondered wildly if Mr. Gold was sending them to himself to torture her for some imagined slight. Maybe this was why no one in town liked him.

 

* * *

 

This time he was waiting for her, standing in the doorway with his hands clasped on his cane, already frowning as he watched her stumble off of her bike and leave it to fall on his lawn.

She didn’t have any time to try to pat or brush herself back into order so she took the bouquet from the cooler strapped to her bike and stalked up his stairs to shove the flowers at his chest. “For you,” she said ungraciously, turning to go back to her bike before he could slam the door in her face again.

“I thought I said—”

She just waved her hand as she righted her bike and pushed off. If she wasn’t still recovering from biking up the hill she’d have called out ‘see you tomorrow!’ just to spite him.

 

* * *

 

_Three Days Until Valentine’s Day_

She was expecting it the next day, and was not disappointed.

This time she found the pompously suited pawnbroker and landlord idly reading a book, sitting on a chair that hadn’t been on the porch the past three days but was now set out beside a small side table and another, empty chair that also hadn’t been there.

She wondered if he was hiding a shot gun behind the chair, to reinforce his edict that ‘he didn’t expect to see her again.’

It seemed a little lowbrow for him, but he was ruthless enough.

To her surprise, his greeting was almost warm—for him.

“Miss French,” he said, and nodded.

She fumbled a little as she opened the cooler to get the bouquet, shooting him a startled look, on guard for him to whip out a shot gun. A pistol seemed more his speed though, easier to hide.

“Mr. Gold,” she smiled hesitantly as she walked up the stairs, holding the flowers out while he remained seated in casual elegance on his porch. She almost giggled at the sudden thought of the picture they must make: like she was his suitor, arriving flowers in hand to plead her case for his heart.

Her humor leant her smile strength and sincerity, she knew, and he blinked and a strange expression crossed his face, gone too quickly for her to fully recognize it.

But she was a friendly person, all it really took to bring that out was to not be met by downright aggression, and she’d always been given to being a little silly, so, her casting of the two of them in some genderbent old-time romance in mind, she held the bouquet out as she curtsied—pulling out an imaginary skirt, since her bike shorts didn’t really swish like they should. “Your flowers, sir.”

He smirked as he took them, the closest she’d seen to a genuine smile and she almost felt like pumping her fist. Hah. Even the taciturn Mr. Gold could smile.

He waved at the side table. “Perhaps you’d like to join me for refreshments?”

For a moment she stood frozen in shock. That…had been a very quick turnaround from a door in her face to the offer of drinks on his porch. It was warming up but it was still far too cold to sit outside over cold drinks. What…what?

Her words were slightly more ordered than her thoughts. “I have more deliveries. I can’t…stay. I’m sorry?” she stuttered.

“Of course,” he said stiffly, quickly clambering to his feet, unhooking his cane from the table where he’d caught it by the handle, and taking the bouquet and the pitcher of what looked like iced tea in one hand, leaving his other free for his cane. “I’d just thought you might like something to drink after biking all the way up here.” He faced away from her, fumbling with the door.

It was a sweet offer. Unexpectedly, startlingly sweet. And now he was gruff and dour and she regretted her instinctive refusal.

“Do you need me to help—”

He spun on her with a glare, and his nostrils were flaring with an anger that seemed far out of proportion to a delivery girl not wanting to sit down for tea. “I am fully capable, Miss French, of a great many things. I certainly don’t need _your_ help.”

She just nodded, chastened, and true to his words he got the door open in spite of the cane in one hand and the bouquet and pitcher in the other. In a second it was slammed shut again, leaving her on the porch with two empty glasses on a table with two chairs, wondering what had just happened.

 

* * *

 

_Two Days Until Valentine’s Day_

In retrospect it seemed obvious. Mr. Gold, grumpy, miserly Mr. Gold, disliked by everyone in town, divorced, estranged from his son—not that she’d been asking around about him—was lonely.

Clearly he _was_ sending the flowers to himself, reaching out for company, for contact with another human being. She felt awful for shutting him down the day before.

Though she still groaned at the thought of pedaling her ancient bike up his hill again. She wasn’t making enough to replace the sad old thing _and_ save up to move out and move on with her life. At this rate she’d have killer legs by the time he was satisfied that he didn’t need to keep sending himself flowers though.

She could take the van of course, but it seemed such a waste of gas to go such a little distance with such a little load.

 

* * *

 

After the fiasco the day before she wasn’t surprised, but she was disappointed, to find no flashy black Cadillac in the driveway where it had been the past four days, and no answer when she rang the doorbell.

With a defeated sigh she left the flowers on the mat outside the door.

 

* * *

 

_One Day Until Valentine’s Day_

She was hopeful the next day, when her father left out yet another of the bouquets. Perhaps Mr. Gold hadn’t entirely given up, if he was still ordering the flowers. She was sick at the thought of being the reason he stopped trying to talk to people, the reason he finally just gave up and shut out the world completely.

If he was still ordering the flowers there was still a chance to make it right and show him that he didn’t have to be lonely.

 

* * *

 

This time his Cadillac was back although the table and chairs were vacant—but they were still there. That was a good sign, surely?

She rang the doorbell, and in a suspiciously short amount of time, he answered. He wasn’t frowning as darkly as he had the first three days, but he didn’t look as ‘casual’ about her being there as the day he’d invited her to sit with him, either. His walls were definitely back up and she felt awful for being the reason for them.

It had to be so hard for a man like him to reach out and she couldn’t believe she’d been so blind to it.

She stood for a long moment, just holding the bouquet while he waited. Watching. She felt like she was facing down some wild animal; another wrong move from her and it would vanish back into its lair, to lick its wounds in solitude and maybe never venture out again.

“I—uhm…could I come in and use the bathroom?” she asked.

And instantly started cursing herself. It was the first thing she’d been able to think of to get her into his house—inside his literal walls, if not his figurative ones—but it was _not_ how she’d intended to start. Something flirty maybe, something friendly at least, maybe even just a meek request for something to drink, though she’d been afraid that might feel like an insult after turning down his offer of the same two days before.

He looked at her suspiciously.

But really—was he going to tell her she couldn’t come in to use the bathroom?

He made her wait so long she started to think he would.

Finally he nodded. “Fine. Through here,” he said, holding the door open for her.

She breathed a sigh of relief and followed him into the house. It looked surprisingly lived in. She’d expected a show case, the sort of pristine, immaculate space that looked like no one had ever set foot inside, but it actually looked like a real home. Granted, he had a lot of things on obvious ‘display’ and she strongly suspected that even some of the things he was using as though they were regular furniture or knickknacks were probably older than Storybrooke and worth more than her father’s entire shop, but there was a comfortably cluttered feeling to the house.

She really did have to use the bathroom he led her to though, nerves probably, and when she was done she found him waiting for her in the living room.

“I understand you’re quite busy with your deliveries but I couldn’t help but notice you seem a bit…fatigued by your trip,” he said, not looking at her as he carefully arranged the flowers in a crystal vase. “I could offer you a glass of—”

“I’d love one!” she said with such vehemence he turned a briefly startled look on her.

“A—ah, a drink of anything. Water. Milk. Soda. Tea. I’m just so—thirsty. And I don’t have any more deliveries today. Plenty of time to just…drink…something,” she trailed off, wondering what the hell had happened to her. She didn’t think she’d been less cool with a man since she’d been in high school.

“I have tea,” he said, still looking startled. “Hot tea—”

“That sounds lovely!” she enthused, a little too heartily.

“We can drink it in the living room, or the library, if you prefer. The view of the garden—”

“Library?” she asked, her interest more subtle but far more genuine.

Perhaps sensing that, one corner of his mouth twitched in what was almost a real smile. “The library it is then.”

 

* * *

 

“And you’ve read all of these?” she asked, thumbing through a first edition of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_.

“Most,” he said, and the amusement in his voice made her turn to him—and suddenly realize she’d been chattering away about books and covetously exploring his shelves while basically ignoring him for the last—well, probably far too long.

She hadn’t even had a sip of tea yet although she was vaguely aware he’d poured himself a second cup. She grinned. “Sorry,” she said, figuring she didn’t have to explain, as she returned the book to its place with one last lingering stroke across the spine before she went to sit in the big armchair on the other side of the table from his. “But your library is amazing!”

He waved her apology away. “No need to be sorry. I’m pleased you found something so agreeable in my humble home.”

“Oh, your books aren’t the only thing that’s agreeable about your home,” she assured him, her hand instinctively reaching out to cover his on the arm of his chair. She was coming on too strong again, she thought, taken aback at her own forwardness. That had almost sounded like a pickup line.

But she didn’t move her hand.

She had embarrassed him though. He was obviously flustered, even uncomfortable, and that realization made her pull back to her own space on other side of the table. She never had been good with personal boundaries.

“I mean—”

“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,” he said suddenly, leaving her confused by the abrupt shift in topic.

Although, what had the topic been again? She rubbed her hand against her arm, trying to ease the prickling in the palm that had so briefly touched him. Not that it had felt bad. Not _bad_ …

She nodded. “Yep. The store will be hopping. I’ll be in the van for deliveries tomorrow for sure.”

“You’ll be busy. Of course.”

“Well, yes, very, but you’re so out of the way here, you’ll probably be my last delivery. I mean, if whoever’s been placing the orders places one for tomorrow as well…” she said, trying to gently give him the opportunity to confess.

And he smiled and the tension in him seemed to ease but he just said, “Yes. If.” He said it knowingly, but he didn’t admit to anything.

She had to shake her head and smile back.

“I should probably go,” she said, catching a glimpse of the grandfather clock in the corner. “Papa will be holding dinner for me.”

He stood immediately. “Of course,” he said.

“Thank you for the tea.”

“It was my pleasure.”

She turned to him one last time as he held the front door open for her to go reclaim her bike.

“Until tomorrow. _If_ ,” she teased.

He nodded. “Until tomorrow,” he said with a strange somberness.

 

* * *

 

_Valentine’s Day_

She was relieved to see the bouquet again, this time waiting with dozens more instead of one or two, and she’d already taken out dozens of others that had been specifically scheduled to be delivered earlier in the day. This would go a long way towards getting her father’s store back in the black with—she winced at the realization—with his landlord, Mr. Gold.

She wondered if it made him a little like Robin Hood, secretly patronizing one of his own tenants who was struggling financially. Probably not, but it was sweet of him.

She was glad to see the bouquet—and extra glad she had the excuse to use the van today and not her bike. It also gave her the opportunity to wear something a bit nicer than bike shorts and a hoodie. Not that she was dressing up for anything, it was just a nice touch on Valentine’s Day to have your flowers delivered by someone who looked presentable rather than utilitarian.

It wasn’t like there was one particular delivery she wanted to look nice for.

It was just that it was the last house on the route, that was why she needed to refresh her makeup—he deserved to have a delivery girl who looked as good as she had for her first flowers of the day. The fact that she’d told her dad she wouldn’t be back for dinner because she had a date was just a way of getting him to not ask questions, it wasn’t actually that she thought delivering flowers to Mr. Gold _was_ a date.

She tapped her nails on the steering wheel for a moment, putting off getting out of the van while she mused to herself about why she was trying so hard to make herself believe all that. He was just lonely, she was just trying to be his friend, she didn’t want anything more than that—did she?

Perhaps having noticed her dawdling in the van in the driveway behind his Cadillac for a while, she saw him open the door and step out onto the porch.

He was wearing a suit, he always was, but was she imagining that he looked a little more tailored that usual? It was hard to tell with him, he really did do it up the nines just for a casual day manning his shop or collecting rent, but whether he’d put any more effort into it today than usual, she decided he did look extra dapper in his navy three piece, and pale blue dress shirt, with coordinating tie and pocket square.

She saw his hesitant smile from across the yard, and it made her beam and speed up to grab the last bouquet from the back and scramble out of the van to meet him.

Why she suddenly felt shy, standing before him, flowers in hand again like a suitor come a-courting, she really didn’t want to think about too much.

He looked her over and a look like that from another man—or even him, a week ago—might have seemed far too forward; instead it felt flatteringly appreciative.

“You look…lovely,” he said.

Her lips twitched as she fought back the urge to tell him he did as well, but she wasn’t sure if he was quite ready to start experiencing the fullness of her odd sense of humor yet. “I’ve been told I clean up well,” she said instead.

He seemed to relax a bit. “I’d thought…you might like to come in—”

She heard a car pulling up in the driveway behind her van, but she didn’t turn around until it honked.

“Darling!” a shrill voice drawled out, as an elegant redhead in a little black dress that left very little to the imagination came striding up to the porch as if she owned it. She hadn’t even bothered to close the driver’s side door behind her.

For a moment Belle felt a definite sinking feeling. She’d misunderstood completely, he wasn’t lonely, he’d been waiting all week for that brassy-haired, shrill-voiced, crazy-eyed—

“Did you enjoy the flowers I sent you, you naughty boy?”

Belle was stricken. The words were a punch to the gut—or a dagger to the heart.

But when she looked at him, instead of pleased with this new visitor, he looked panicked.

And Belle, impulsive, reckless Belle, acting on instinct, reached for him, wrapping her arms possessively around one of his and turning to stand shoulder to shoulder with him to face the interloper.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” Belle demanded coldly.

The other woman came to a slow halt, eyes narrowed on Belle.

“I’m Drummond’s girlfriend. Who are you?” she said as coldly, obviously ready to square off.

_So that was his first name!_

“I’m his date for Valentine’s Day,” Belle said, not backing down an inch, even though she felt Mr. Gold’s surprise in the sudden stiffness of his body next to hers. Oh, she did hope she wasn’t mistaking the situation _again_.

“Are you?” the redhead said snidely. “Funny, you look like a common delivery girl to me.” She nodded knowingly at the flowers Belle still clutched, more awkwardly now the way she was pressed against Mr. Gold.

Belle smiled and curled her body softly against Gold’s anyway, trying not to lean on him too heavily, mindful of his cane.

“Well, it _is_ how we met,” she said, enjoying the way the redhead’s pale eyes caught fire. “Making a delivery for my father’s flower shop. It’s all been wildly romantic,” she added, confiding and catty at once. “Everyday I’ve come to personally deliver his flowers,”—as though there was anyone else to deliver them—“And everyday we’ve grown closer and closer, until he finally gave in and invited me over for Valentine’s Day dinner. Isn’t he just too sweet?”

“You are _not_ his—” The redhead was practically breathing fire, her chest heaving, her eyes blazing, her hands clenched into claws. Belle was actually glad Gold was there and she wasn’t facing the other woman alone, she looked ready to commit murder; no wonder he’d looked panicked when he’d seen her drive up.

“Miss Laverte.” He didn’t sound panicked though. He sounded icy enough to freeze the fiery redhead where she stood fuming. “As you can see, I have plans for this evening and they don’t include you. I’d believed I made it very clear in Boston that my plans will never include you. Kindly see yourself off.”

Belle would have felt sorry for the other woman except…she still seemed so menacing. More maniacal than wounded. And not quite convinced.

Never one to do things by half measures, Belle reached for Gold’s face, caressing his jaw, not letting herself be distracted by his wide-eyed surprise as she leaned up on tiptoe and kissed him, square on the mouth, as though it wasn’t the first time.

As though she wasn’t pleasantly surprised by the softness of his lips on hers and the sweetness of his breath.

Miss Laverte screeched and Belle pulled away from him, but she didn’t look away, desperate to see if he’d been at all affected by the kiss, since she was near reeling from it herself.

“Dinner is waiting, Miss French,” he said softly.

“Belle,” she corrected.

“Belle,” he said, then pulled away, just then noticing that they still had their arms around each other.

She risked a glance at the other woman who was stomping back to her car as though she was trying to leave divots in his yard with her stiletto heels. But Belle took Gold’s gallantly proffered arm and followed him into the house.

“Your ex is scary,” she whispered as soon as he’d closed the door behind him.

“She’s not my ex,” he said. “She’s not my anything—except perhaps stalker. Insistent on seeing things that were never there—”

There was a crash and a crunching and they both jostled to peek through the glass of his front door, to see Miss Laverte reversing after having apparently crashed her car deliberately into the back of the Game of Thorns delivery van hard enough to push it into Gold’s Cadillac.

Gold winced. “I’ll pay for the repairs.”

“Scary!” Belle repeated with a shudder.

 

* * *

 

“You thought I was having the flowers delivered—to myself?” he asked, over a dinner he really did seem to have had ready for two.

“Well, I mean—” Belle desperately regretted admitting that. She didn’t really want to tell him that she’d thought he was so desperately lonely he’d been ordering flowers just for the company of the delivery girl. She was afraid he would not be amused by the implication that he couldn’t find it any other way.

He shook his head. He seemed much more at ease tonight, after she’d chased away that woman—and kissed him. “And here I’d thought _you_ were sending them,” he said with a wry smile.

She sputtered. “Me? But why would I send you flowers?”

“Your father is in arrears on his rent and I understand you’ve recently been having financial troubles of your own—”

She set her fork down on her plate with a decided _clink_.

“You thought I was coming up here to chase you for your money?”

“Ah,” he was wise enough to look nervous at her tone. “Well, why did you think I was having the flowers sent to myself?”

“Ah…” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ve both jumped to unflattering conclusions this week, I think?”

She huffed but picked her fork up. “I suppose.”

 

* * *

 

She’d never imagined she’d end up staying so long, or be so reluctant to leave when the night was done. But they’d eaten, they had dessert, they retired to his wonderful library to discuss some of his books and now it was a quarter to ten and impossible to stay any longer and pretend she was just there to keep some other woman away.

He insisted on walking her to the van, and although she thought it was incredibly old fashioned, she found she appreciated the gesture.

“Well,” she said, lingering by the driver’s side door, jingling the keys.

“Well,” he said, awkwardly fiddling with the head of his cane.

“I suppose with the mystery of the flowers solved, there won’t be any more deliveries.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” he said.

Was he really okay with that? Because she very much feared she was not.

“I have…grown used to having flowers around the house,” he offered. “The flowers from your father’s shop are very nice.”

“The best in town,” she joked weakly, since he was the only florist.

“I might want to start ordering—”

She put her hand on his shoulder and kissed him again, this time just for her, with no one to see them but the stars overhead.

He almost staggered when she finally drew back and she grinned.

“Actually, why don’t we have lunch tomorrow? Granny’s? Say…one o’clock? I usually have a break from my deliveries around then,” she said, straightening his tie and smoothing his waistcoat. Enjoying that one of his hands was still on her hip.

“Okay,” he agreed, sounding dazed.

“I’ll treat,” she said with a smirk, slipping out of his embrace and closing the door to the van before he could argue.

He tapped on the window before she could drive away and though she thought about driving off without giving him a chance at the last word, she rolled the window down.

He reached in and caught her face, leaning in for a stolen kiss of his own.

She sighed when he pulled away but she giggled and rolled her eyes gamely at his smug look.

“Until tomorrow,” he said.

No _if_ s this time.

“Until tomorrow,” she agreed.


End file.
